


Hetalia: Nordic Islands

by Imnotgoodatusernamnes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America being America (Hetalia), Gen, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Historical Hetalia, Nordics, Nyotalia America (Hetalia), Original Character(s), Protective Norway (Hetalia)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24949651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnotgoodatusernamnes/pseuds/Imnotgoodatusernamnes
Summary: Basically a historically-focused hetalia fanfic focusing on my own Faroe Islands OC, as well as Svalbard. Some popular character appear as well. Please comment if you like it!
Kudos: 7





	1. The Most Insignificant Islands in the World

The village of Kirksandur lies entrenched in the gap between two cliffs, in a narrow valley that leads into the Atlantic Ocean. Sparsely spread throughout this, a few wooden cabins decorate the otherwise monotonous landscape. In a way, it couldn't even be considered a village at all. If a raven flew over, it could easily miss these tiny specks. It's a place that feels disconnected, almost as if it was a world of its own. Although there's a road leading deeper into the island, it is seldom used. Most contact with the outside world is done through the small port near the so-called "town centre", which contains four small fishing ships used by the locals. Once a week, a boat comes in from Tórshavn with supplies and to take whoever to the larger civilization.

Someone from the outside would describe life here as boring, and even miserable. But there's a certain charm to it. There's something very appealing about the peace an quiet of the countryside. Truly, this feels like its own isolated world. Admittedly, there is not much in the sense of entertainment around here, but it is never dull, nevertheless. Going out in the early mornings with the fishing vessels, helping the farmers herd their sheep, even just walking around the town aimlessly can occupy the entire day. And this is all without talking about the vast open country surrounding the town. Kilometres upon kilometres of virgin landscape: rolling hills, hidden valleys, rocky shores and jagged cliffs. You could take thousands of hikes around the area, or sit on the rocks by the ocean, listening to the waves crash relentlessly. On lucky days, you could go out to a hill and spot a flock of puffins, and even get close enough to touch them!

If you follow the road leading out of the village, running parallel to the shore, you will eventually spot a solitary cottage sitting idly on a small cliff overlooking the ocean. It is, by all means, an ordinary Faroese cabin, made of sturdy oak wood. As many others, this particular cabin is painted black with tar to preserve the heat better in the winter. Following the traditional architecture style of the islands, its roof is covered completely with green grass, which, despite its appearance, provides superb protection from the elements. You see, Kirksandur, and the Faroe Islands in general, are places where tradition is extremely important. Houses were built exactly this way even from medieval times. Even in modern times, the same styles are used throughout the islands, and it is easy to confused older ones for new ones. It gives the place a lot of charm and character.

In this cabin lives Aðalheiður Sigurdardóttir, a solitary but friendly young woman. Usually, she spends her time alone in the vicinity of her cabin, silently looking towards the ocean, absorbed in her own thoughts. She is well known by the villagers, as she also likes to wander aimlessly through the small town. Aðalheiður often helps fishermen and farmers with menial tasks, and she seems to enjoy it. But most of the time she's somewhere out there in nature, hiking and exploring the landscape. She has lived here for a long as anyone can remember, and even she doesn't know how long it's been. But she doesn't really worry about it; she finds much enjoyment in her quiet lifestyle. It seems like she never runs out of places to explore, she never grows tired of contemplating the sunset on her small cliff, she never tires of lending a hand around. She rarely leaves for Tórshavn, except for one weekend a month for work-related purposes, and to go to the single cinema on the islands.

Aðalheiður's favourite spot in the island is a smaller waterfall a few minutes outside the village. It's located near the foot of a small rocky hill, trickling down into a stream that eventually drained into the sea. It was by no means as impressive or as large as the more famous Faroese waterfalls, such as Múlafossur, but it was something special. Throughout the millennia, a thin stream that managed to burrow its way out from a larger underground spring and slowly flow down the hill. This eroded the black rock and carved a strange pattern into it. Locals always thought it looks like a tree's roots. For Aðalheiður, it doesn't really matter what it looked like. Instead, she focused much more on its sound. It isn't as strong a roar as the larger ones, nor was it too faint to hear; it was just in the perfect volume and rhythm to be soothing. It has a strange harmony to it, a certain musicality that is difficult to understand. 

Not many people visit this place, but sometimes certain peculiar individuals seek it out: adventurers from faraway countries seeking to discover all the secrets of the island, photographers looking for the perfect landscape, hikers trying to score a new route. They would often be surprised to find a beautiful young woman lying on the black porous rocks next to the water, barely close enough to be sprayed by its mists. Aðalheiður always looks natural in these surroundings, as if the land itself accepted her. Her dark blond hair and porcelain white skin are a stark contrast to the rocky islands, giving it more colour. She almost always wears a white turtle-neck with a grass-green trench coat over it, and black trousers with black suede shoes. Sometimes, she would add a green or black beret as well. Just her image is very reminiscent of the landscape itself. Some would even go as far as to say she was an amalgamation of the country itself.

Aðalheiður enjoys talking to these people. She likes hearing of their adventures, of their journeys across the islands and across the world. Usually, she doesn't speak much. She likes to listen a lot more, since she doesn't travel that much. When she does, it is usually to visit family only, and rarely to other faraway places. She doesn't mind, but she loves to know what's out there through these people. At times, she loses track of time and stays listening to stories. These are the times where she seems the happiest. These foreigners recall seeing a glimmer in here eyes, a fascination for the world that is rarely seen. Those days, she would often stay up even later gazing at the stars, and then return to her cottage at the earliest hours of dawn.

Living this way is a dream come true for her. Well, not like she knows much different. Really, Aðalheiður is a simple, peaceful person that wants to keep her life the same as it has been for the past few decades. It's not that she rejects change, it's more that she likes to incorporate new things into her lifestyle instead of changing it completely. For her, it i very important to avoid conflict as much as possible, unless it is an emergency. And even then, she likes to keep her confrontations peaceful. Right now, she lives in peace. But not so long ago, it was completely different.


	2. Tórshavn, 800 AD

Aðalheiður's earliest memories are hazy and confusing. She doesn't even remember where she came from. All she can remember is the vast, open landscape that she has always known. Sometimes, random images of times long gone come to her mind, but she can never really tell how early they were. Most of them are incomplete and make no sense. Whenever she tries to remember her earliest memories, it all feels very hazy, like the dense fog that would sometimes engulf her cabin. She would often see a person in the distance, maybe a tiny cottage on a hill, at times even a woman holding her. But whenever she tries to place these thought in a timeline, she struggles. Was any of this her earliest memory? Or was it something that happened elsewhere in her thousand-year life? These questions kept her up at night, and deep inside she knew that she would never find a concrete answer. Even though these disembodied images feel like they relate to her past, she cannot be sure if they provide any answers. The only thing that she can be sure of is that there was a time... a time when she was alone... a time before.... before her first clear memory.

Sitting in her bed one sleepless night, she tries to make a sense of it all. She looks at the corner of the room, to that one object that she cherishes and hates simultaneously. She knows that that isn't her first memory but... But there's something about it that calms her mind. For her, it's a link to something she can grasp in her past, something that, despite the pain and anger that it brings, still connects her to a simpler time.

Although this is (probably) not her first memory, Aðalheiður takes another one as her earliest. It is the earliest one that she can remember clearly, and one that gives simple answers to her complex questions. It's still a memory more than a millennia old, but she knows that it is not the answer. Either way, she tries to persuade herself that there's nothing else before this; for Aðalheiður, it is much easier to think that that's the truth. And well, after all, it is a heart-warming one. When she closes her eyes, she can still go back to that faraway time. She remembers that day as the foggiest day of her life: people were reduced to mere dark blobs, and buildings to black boulders. Maybe it was just a cruel trick of her memory, but she swears the fog made it hard to distinguish her surroundings. She remembers walking around the tiny settlement that later became Tórshavn, looking perplexed at the amount of people now on the island. She can't remember where she came from, or where she would go later. But she remembers herself as a young girl, shyly walking in the new settlement trying to figure out who these people were. Aðalheiður remembers feeling scared that she would be attacked by them. But then...

°

A little girl is walking down the rocky shore where the first rudimentary huts were erected. The people of the settlement don't really seem to mind her, busy as they were with building the village up. Nobody seemed to know where she came from; they all probably assumed she was someone else's child. Thus, she wandered freely through the town which would someday be Tórshavn. By no means is she clueless: she clearly knows how to get around on her own. So nobody even bothers. However, she's still wary of them, as she had never seen so many strangers.

Eventually, she wanders to the shoreline, where a few longships are docked. She definitely has never seen anything like that before. She appears to be absorbed by the dragon figurehead at the front of the narrow boat. Staring at it from the ground, she wonders whether she will ever be able to create something as grand and majestic as this. She wants to get on this ship, as it is something new and magical to her. The little girl holds a fascination with the sea, but she has never been able to roam it; the rocky shores of the islands were too dangerous for her to swim in. But she's too small and can't reach the edge of the ship. She tries standing on her toes to reach further, but it is just beyond her grasp. She sees that its edge is closer to the ground closer to the water, so she tries to scoot that way. But the ground is moist with sea spray, and she immediately slips. Undeterred, she tries to grab onto the shields that line up the side of the vessel, and she partially manages to get into it before falling again.

Suddenly, a hand reaches out to her. It is a heavily-callused hand, worn away by holding a spear, by rowing a wooden oar for days at an end. It is a Viking hand to the bone, but something about it felt warm and welcoming. Aðalheiður looked up at the man behind the hand. His face was completely mismatched with his hand. It was a smooth face with little to no beard. Although his expression wasn't kind in any way, it was not nearly as scary as that of many of the men in the settlement. The mysterious man was staring at her, but his sky-blue eyes had a glimmer to them that made her feel at ease. His carefully groomed blond hair has a shine even with this minimal sunlight, giving him a powerful aura. He feels out of place in a hard landscape like this, but she's glad to see a friendly face around.

"Do you need help, little Viking?" He softens his expression, a if smiling was too difficult for him. A few moments later, he offers his other hand to carry her on into the longship. She hesitates for a while. Her instincts tell her that it could be dangerous and that she's better off trying alone. After all, she does know how to survive on her own. She feels way too ashamed and proud to be carried by this man she just met. Instead of giving in, she glares at him. However, this has an adverse effect because the Viking blushes and smiles shyly at her. She only gets angrier at this, making her thoughts much more stubborn. She's an independent woman, and she needs no help. She turns around, and unsuccessfully tries to reach the edge again. She can do it herself, right? But something also tells her that sometimes help is necessary. She is reminded of her futile attempts to climb on by the painful rash on her right knee, making her blush immediately. Looking away from him, she extends her own arms as if waving a white flag, beckoning for him to help her up.

Aðalheiður felt overwhelmed being on a boat for the first time. It was such a simple thing, a simple tub made of wood, but it somehow managed to tame the violent waves around the island. It's weird how she doesn't remember anything about her younger days, but she knows that she has always had two underlying and almost instinctive fears: the unstoppable force of the ocean, and the treacherous northern winds. Sitting in the ship, he felt like anything could be done. A vessel designed to conquer the seas and tame the winds. And above all that, she felt safe. In such a place, she felt like anything could be done. She felt like she could go anywhere now. Sitting on one of the wooden plans serving as benches, she imagined herself sailing around the islands, finding new cliffs to hike. She was so immersed in this scenario that she didn't even notice the person sitting next to her.

"You didn't arrive here with us, right?", he quietly remarks. She looks up, startled out of her daydream.

"I- " She breaks off mid-sentence, as she can't be sure herself. She tries to remember, but she only sees broken images... For a moment, she's scared. But.. there's some things she can remember. Like the fear of the ocean and the wind, or random flashes of the green plains of the islands... Are these memories from long ago? Is this just instinctive? She doesn't know, so she stays silent.

"Well, I guess it doesn't really matter. You look at home here, so I guess you can stay." She is so absorbed in her own thoughts that she doesn't really respond. She just mutters something unintelligible under her breath.

"Hmm, not much of a talker, eh? I - kinda get it" , he exclaims with a small sigh. The pair sit in the longship, looking towards the open sea without saying a single word. In a weird way, Aðalheiður enjoys this silent company. For a while, they it next to each other, looking outwards into the open ocean. The sun finally begins to set, and the fog gets tinted with the richest tones of orange and red. Watching these colours, Aðalheiður decides that one day, she will go out to the sea on her own.

That night, the little girl slept inside the boat; the blond stranger said it was alright. He told her not to worry about it, but Aðalheiður felt a little guilty. She could see that he wasn't used to interactions like that. To her, it seemed like he enjoyed his time with her, but you couldn't tell that just by looking at his face. In a way, he reminded her of herself. Long after his departure, she sits still in that same place wondering who he really was. She asks herself what he could be doing in her island, and what he would do about her. As she wonders about these questions, she remembers the last words he spoke to her before he left: "I... I only waned to say I'm glad I met you... Oh! By the way, my name is Lukas."

As the full moon rose, she lied down on her back to observe the stars. She stayed awake until very late, utterly absorbed by the beauty of nature. At that moment, she didn't really care about her past memories. Immersed in the moment, she began to think that maybe, just maybe, her origins did not matter that much. As long as she could have peaceful days like this forever, she could be happy... Maybe one day she can explore the ocean like that man did...

The man called Lukas is gone when she wakes up the next day. She runs around the settlement trying to find him, but he is nowhere nearby. Eventually, she tires of searching and sits to rest in a rock next to the ocean. The only ship left docked here is the one she had woken up. Suddenly, a realization comes to her. He had left. She stays around the village for the morning, and from the chatter of the townsfolk she learns that Lukas left with most of the men to sail away to an island rumoured to be even larger than this one. After learning this, she feels angry. She also blames herself for thinking that he was something he was not. After all, he is a Viking, and his true nature, as she would later learn, is far from the calm person she had met. However, somewhere at the back of her mind she still wants to see him again.

She decides that since he won't be coming back, its better to find her own place. As she turns to leave, she notices something hanging off the side of the ship she had slept in. She approaches the ship warily, as if expecting a trap. But the object is nothing of the sort. It's a simple Viking cape hanging from the ship's side. At first, she stays away, thinking that someone from the village has left it there accidentally, and will hit her of she touches it. But when looking closely at it, she stops. She recognizes it as the cape that Lukas was wearing last evening. She recognizes the dark blue colour, the heavily worn bearskin neck piece and the singular hole in the lower right corner. She takes it in her hands and tries to wear it, although it is immensely big for her.

A little more encouraged, she walks out of the settlement on her own, determined to become strong as Lukas appeared to be.

°

Aðalheiður remembers that night extremely clearly. Looking at the cape hanging on a chair in the corner of her cottage, she wonders whether she should still keep her. More than a millennia later, it feels like a different universe. Lukas... Her feelings towards him border on hatred, but that cape is something from a better time. It carried her through her difficult early life, but also made his betrayal sting harder when it eventually happened. In this stormy night, she feels strangely nostalgic of that time. In the year 1960, the 9th century is all but a distant memory for most people. But not for her. Aðalheiður can't bring herself to get rid of Lukas' cape despite the rocky relations between the two. That early memory resurfaces at times like this, when she is unable to sleep for no reason. She thinks it calms her, but tonight it has the adverse effect.

Giving up on sleep completely, she turns her light back on and goes to the adjacent room to get a kettle boiling. Sitting in the kitchen, she stares at the thunderstorm brewing outside. This night she feels especially reflective. Ideas float around her head with no rhyme or reason. However, there is one thought that keeps nagging at her constantly: her memories. For some reason, she feel inclined to go back through her past.

When the water is boiling, she makes herself a cup of strong black coffee and retreats to her room. She grabs the chair where the cape is resting and sets it next to the window. This is her favourite place in the cottage, and she usually sits there for hours observing the ocean beyond her small cliff. In her mind, even the thunderstorm raging outside is beautiful and to a certain extent soothing. For a second, she considers putting on the cape to fight the cold, but she ultimately decides not to. She takes a sip of coffee and braces herself for a long, long night.


End file.
